


Twice the Thunder

by hauntedjaeger (saellys)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Coma, Cunnilingus, Emotional Roller Coaster, F/F, Medical Procedures, Multi, Outdoor Sex, POV Bisexual Character, Polyamory Negotiations, Pre-OT3, Sexual Inexperience, Voyeurism, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:34:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22431175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saellys/pseuds/hauntedjaeger
Summary: “I feel like I should apologize,” she tells the Mandalorian that night. It would be a lie if she did, and a lie if she simply didn’t tell him. He has never, even in sleep, deserved anything less than honesty from her. “But I’m not sorry.”She didn’t spare him a thought when Omera led her into the forest’s gloom, and found a tree to back herself against, and put Cara’s hand on her waist.
Relationships: Cara Dune/Omera (Star Wars), Cara Dune/The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Omera (Star Wars)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 84





	Twice the Thunder

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all mind if I... concoct increasingly angsty new ways to get these three into bed together? 
> 
> TW for blood and medical procedures in the first section of this story. 
> 
> Title from "New Fears" by Lights, which is also on a short playlist for this fic here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5RdL3l0RoXhSfY9vElU8Ne

“Stay with me, buddy,” Cara pants, kneeling over Djarin. He makes an answering sound. A terrible sound, high and weak and pained. Cara folds bacta-soaked gauze into a pad, and knots it in place just under his bicep. It soaks through in seconds. And that’s only the third wound on one arm; she hasn’t gotten to his other arm, his legs, or his neck. 

All that kriffing beskar, and he’s still so exposed. Neither of them expected flechette mines. Next time they attack an Imperial remnant fortress, which will ideally be never, she’ll make him bring a personal shield unit. 

Cara feels for the next wound. Djarin thrashes with the pain when her fingers find it, a handspan up his arm—but that motion displaces a flechette lodged at the base of his neck. 

He arches and reaches up, and Cara moves fast to grab his wrists. She gets both his hands in one of hers, hating how easy it is to do that now, how weak he is, and she presses her other hand to the place where red, red arterial blood now pours out. 

He panics even more then, straining against her like she’s going for his helmet; maybe he’s lost too much blood to recognize that it’s Cara, and that she’s trying to save his life. 

She’s not going to be fast enough. Even if the _Crest_ had a bacta immersion tank, it wouldn’t be enough. He’s going to bleed out before she can pull every flechette and patch all the places he was hit. In desperation she turns to the kid, who has watched all this with wide eyes and drooping ears. “Can you do anything for him?” 

The kid lifts his clawed fingers, and presently Djarin goes slack. His hands drop. The blood pools, doesn’t flow anymore. Cara fumbles with his cowl and feels for a pulse on an undamaged part of his neck. It’s sluggish, like his heart is pumping something thicker than blood, but it’s there. If she holds still long enough, she can see his chest rise. 

“Thank you,” she tells the kid. She takes the bloodied pincers and finds the flechette that nicked his artery, pulls it carefully, carefully away, and sprays bacta into the wound before covering it. He doesn’t twitch once, so total is his induced slumber. “Are you gonna sleep now, too?” 

The little womp rat curls up on his side on the deck at Djarin’s feet. Cara will have her own voice for company, then. 

And it’s going to be a long night. 

“Sorry,” she tells Djarin as she finishes with the three flechettes that landed between his breastplate and helmet, and moves on to the four in his left arm, which necessitates taking off his glove and folding his sleeve back. She’s pretty sure she shouldn’t even be seeing his skin. Not that she can see it anyway, under all the blood. 

“Sorry again,” she says when she has to remove his gunbelt and trousers to get the flechette above his right hip, and two more out of his left knee. 

Only then does Cara pull three flechettes from her own arm. She’s too exhausted to register the pain of the wicked little points tearing her muscle on their way out. 

And then she’s left with a canister of tiny bloody blades, which jingle a merry tune about death when she shakes it. Cara doesn’t feel merry at all. She gets clean rags from the maintenance locker and cleans up the blood that hasn’t soaked into his cape from the deck plating, then wets another one and cleans off all his exposed skin. She has no idea how to detach the pieces of his armor so she can wash his padding and base layer. That will have to wait. 

Cara goes to the basin near his bunk, and she holds her hands under the tap and leans her head against the bulkhead. Up until now her hands have been steady, have had to be, but she watches the recycled water run red until she can’t see for the tears in her eyes, and she shakes and shakes and shakes. 

Eventually she cleans her face and comes back to him. She wants to lie down too, to fold herself up by his side. But she has a hyperspace jump to plot, to the safest place she knows—safer now that they eliminated the Imp. 

“Don’t worry,” Cara tells him. She wants to put her hand on him, but there are precious few places that aren’t bandaged and red. She settles for touching the side of his helmet. “I’m taking you home.” 

* * *

Everyone in the village saw the _Razor Crest_ fly over, and everyone saw Cara come out of the woods with a hovercart bearing a tattered and comatose Mandalorian, but the only eyes that matter are Omera’s. She watches Cara approach and stop before her. “He needs time to heal,” Cara says. 

Omera’s eyes stay locked on Djarin with a profound sorrow. This is, to say the least, not the way she wanted him to come back. “Please bring him inside,” she says at last. 

Cara hoists him out of the hovercart and into Omera’s house, where she lays him on the bed. The kid follows, and Cara spots Winta peeking fearfully and silently through the door. Omera fetches extra blankets and starts to rig up a curtain. “How long has he been unconscious?” 

“Three days. The kid put him under, to stop the bleeding.” 

“Flechettes?” 

Cara nods. “I pulled sixteen out of him.” 

Omera’s lips tighten. She bends to adjust the stained canvas of his sleeve, opening a tear so she can check the skin underneath. It’s closed over now, just like the places on Cara’s arm that have already begun to thicken and silver with scar tissue. 

“He lost a lot of blood,” Cara says unnecessarily. 

“It’s good that you brought him here,” Omera says, and unexpected relief floods through Cara, followed by another wave of fatigue. Omera eyes her. “Let’s get you set up in the barn.”

“Where will you sleep?” 

Omera arches a brow. “Here.” 

Right. That makes sense, in case he needs something, in case he wakes. Cara nods. 

Inside the barn Omera layers three bedrolls together for Cara, and spreads the last spare blanket over them. She takes the crib with her when she leaves. 

Cara is asleep before she’s fully horizontal. 

* * *

The first full day on Sorgan, Cara makes four circuits of the woods around the village. She encounters nothing more threatening than small mammals collecting nuts. All the walking does nothing for her restiveness. She’s still tense, clenching and unclenching her fists, as she comes back to the village. 

Inside Omera’s house, Cara takes a seat on the floor by the blanket-shrouded bed. Winta’s cot and the womp rat’s crib are together against the curve of one wall; there is no other pallet or bedroll in the house. Omera has been sharing the bed with him. Good. It’s good that he’s warm at night. 

“Hey,” Cara says, feeling useless and stupid. “Turns out this place is really boring without you. You’re not missing anything. You stay asleep until you can keep up with me, okay?” 

The only answer is a single slow, even breath from inside his helmet. 

She doesn’t sleep much that night. The second day on Sorgan, she’s going mad by lunchtime. “Give me something to do,” she begs Omera. “Please.” 

Omera looks her over. She nods toward the edge of the ponds. “See those stakes?” 

There’s a pile of them, longer than Cara is tall, straight and sturdy. “Yeah.” 

“We’re working on a permanent perimeter fence. Can you sharpen down the ends?” 

“Yes,” she practically shouts, and she hauls ass to make herself useful. The thwack of the little hatchet is an unspeakably comforting rhythm. She has the whole pile done by sundown. 

She tells Djarin that night, “I sure envy you, getting all this rest.” But she sleeps, heavily and uninterrupted, after the day’s exertion. 

The third day, she goes to Omera for work first thing in the morning, and Omera sends her to dig a new pond. “I had to stop halfway through,” Cara tells Djarin after, “because I looked around and realized I’d dug just enough for a grave. Sat down and had a good panic for a few minutes, but I got back to work and I finished it.” 

The fourth day, she runs irrigation conduit from the river to the new pond and watches in satisfaction as it fills. 

“I miss you,” she says to Djarin that night. “I wish you could see Omera’s face when I manage to do something well here.” 

The fifth day, Omera comes out of the house carrying a bundle of Djarin’s stained clothes and a basket of supplies. “Help me clean these?” 

“You got his armor off,” Cara observes, taking the pile and walking with her to the river. 

“It’s a magnetic clasp system,” Omera says. “The controls are on his vambrace.” 

Cara looks at her askance. “You could have burned your house down, fiddling with that.” 

“But I didn’t,” Omera says. Her smile is sly, and Cara laughs for the first time since this began. “He’s lighter without it all, but I’ll need your help getting him dressed again when everything is dry.” 

“You sure? I think it would be funny if he woke up like this.” 

Omera gives her a stern look, but she breaks into a smile again momentarily. They reach the river. “Try not to fray the cuts too much,” Omera says, and she gives Cara a bottle of cleaning solution and a soapstone. Omera sits on the bank with Djarin’s trousers and a needle and thread. 

Cara crouches in the water, and douses the thickest of the stains with the cleaning solution, which foams and hisses. She lets it all soak in the basket for a few minutes, and then she starts to scrub. To her surprise the bloodstains take longer than the mending does, and Cara is still scrubbing when Omera joins her in the water to clean the trousers. Cara can’t see where the tears were anymore, so fine and precise are Omera’s stitches. 

“So,” Cara says to Djarin that night after everything has dried, and she’s helped Omera put the mended clothes back on him, and Omera has left Cara to her nightly ritual. “I’ve seen you naked now.” 

Not completely—she’s certain that if they tried taking the helmet off, he would rouse immediately. From the neck down he’s just a man, like several billion others in the galaxy. He’s healing well, and his pulse is stronger. “I think you ought to wake up soon,” Cara tells him. “I saw the way Omera looked at you, even though she was trying to be respectful. Don’t keep her waiting.” 

The sixth day, Cara sleeps late. She misses breakfast but she’s too well rested to be irritable about that. She finds Omera out seeding the new pond. “Give me something to do,” she says. 

Omera sets down her tools and regards Cara unreadably. She takes Cara’s hand, and pulls her toward the trees. 

* * *

“I feel like I should apologize,” she tells the Mandalorian that night. It would be a lie if she did, and a lie if she simply didn’t tell him. He has never, even in sleep, deserved anything less than honesty from her. “But I’m not sorry.” 

She didn’t spare him a thought when Omera led her into the forest’s gloom, and found a tree to back herself against, and put Cara’s hand on her waist. 

“I could say it was nothing more than a way to pass the time, but I’m not sure that’s true either.”

It was what Omera wanted, Cara told herself as she propped her knee between Omera’s thighs, and Omera guided Cara’s hand up beneath her dress. It was what Omera needed. 

“I don’t feel bad about it at all,” Cara says. 

She’s more sanguine with it than anything else she’s done for the village since she came back. There could be nothing more fulfilling. There could be no better reward than the satisfaction on Omera’s face. 

“She was so beautiful when she came. She closed her eyes and turned her face away. She must have been thinking of you.” 

The seventh day, when Omera leads her into the woods, Cara presses her against the same tree and goes to her knees. 

“She tastes like cold water,” Cara says at Djarin’s bedside later. “She’s warm, but it’s like drinking cold water. Like you didn’t know how thirsty you were.” 

The eighth day, Cara goes into the woods with Omera, and she kneels down and puts her mouth to Omera’s cunt and stays there until Omera shakes and cries out, and Cara wipes her mouth and starts to back up. And this time, Omera reaches down and pushes her, and Cara isn’t prepared for that at all, and she lands on her back, and Omera strips down Cara’s trousers and she does for Cara what Cara has been doing for her. 

And oh, Cara has an awful lot pent up inside, and her climax is a swift and wracking thing. 

Omera stays kneeling over her as Cara trembles. She rubs her palm up and down the length of Cara’s thigh. “So good,” Omera whispers to her. “You’re so good.” 

All the way back to the village, Cara tries to figure out how she’ll tell Djarin she loves Omera. 

“Mama!” calls Winta as soon as they’re in sight. “He’s awake!” 

And sure enough, Djarin is glinting in the sun on Omera’s porch with his kid, but when he sees them coming he gets to his feet. He takes a step, and Cara can see exactly how much pain he’s trying to hide. Omera leaves her side and goes to help him, and Cara shouldn’t just stand there staring, she should help too, or at least keep walking so he doesn’t have to go as far. But she can’t bring herself to move. 

The Mandalorian limps with his arm over Omera’s shoulders all the way to where Cara waits, and then he lets go of Omera, his hand lingering a moment on her shoulder, and he reaches for Cara. He sets both hands on her arms and draws her forward until his helmet is touching her forehead. 

Cara shuts her eyes. From this close, he’ll smell Omera on her. “Good to see you up,” she says. 

He backs away enough to nod, and then he starts to angle himself toward Omera, and Cara takes that opportunity to leave them. 

The ninth day and the tenth day, Cara doesn’t leave the barn except to get food, and pee in the woods. No matter how many times she counts and recounts her credits, they aren’t enough to get her passage off this too-small planet. 

The tenth night, she hears Omera’s step on the planks outside the barn, but Cara rolls over and pretends to sleep. 

* * *

The eleventh day, Cara comes out for the last dregs of breakfast. Before she can take a plate, Omera appears out of nowhere and pulls on Cara’s hand. Cara’s heart leaps in her chest. She follows Omera to the woods. She’s missed this so much. Her lips have missed the warmth of Omera’s folds, the softness of the hair over her cunt. She grins as they slip into the shadowed woods. 

And then she sees Djarin, leaning against their tree. 

Cara lets go of Omera’s hand. Her pulse pounds in her ears, almost drowning out her swirling recriminations. It’s all going to boil over if she doesn’t find someplace to put it. 

“Are you here for a tutorial?” she asks Djarin. “I guess you’d need one, since you never take the bucket off. Not like you’ve had any practice.” 

He makes no response. 

“Or do you want a fight?” She steps closer, leans in to peer at his visor. “It seemed like a square deal to me. I only had her a few minutes a day, and you were in bed with her every night. Not my fault you wasted all that time.” 

He shifts his head a millimeter down and to the right. A tell, small though it is. Cara smirks and raises her hand to shove his breastplate, disdainful and dismissive. 

He moves faster than she can anticipate, locking his hand around her wrist and twisting. Muscle memory takes over and Cara turns with it, and now she’s on the ground, but at least her arm isn’t broken. 

“We’re here to talk,” Omera says, voice strained. 

Cara coughs into the dirt. “Before or after you sit on my face?” Djarin presses Cara’s wrist a mite harder into the small of her back. She deserves that. 

Omera sighs, and Cara can just see her, in the corner of her eye, rubbing her temples. “Cara,” she says, “I love you.” 

Djarin releases her then, because Cara goes completely slack with astonishment. She stares at Omera, shakes her head a little. “No.” She doesn’t have to say things like that, not when Cara was just a placeholder. 

“Yes,” Omera insists. “I brought you here to ask what you want.” 

Cara pushes up from the ground to sit. “Hell if I know,” she laughs bitterly. 

Omera steps closer, and bends down to touch Cara’s face. “Then allow me to make a suggestion?” Cara nods. “You, and me, and Din. All of us, together.” 

Cara’s throat is dry; she swallows, with effort. “Is that what you want?”

Omera gently moves a lock of hair out of Cara’s face. “Nothing would make me happier,” she says. She kisses Cara, and then lingers at her lips. 

“Also,” Omera says, “I’d like you to show him how you do it.” 

Cara turns her most insufferable grin, a grin that’s gotten her punched more than once, on the Mandalorian. “I was right,” she sing-songs. 

“You were right,” he says, “about how she tastes, too.” 

The grin falls right off of Cara’s face. 

Djarin holds her mortified gaze. He heard it all. It’s all out there. And still, three days ago when he woke, he went right to her. 

After a moment she gathers her nerve, but not exactly her dignity yet, and definitely not her bravado. Amazing, how easy it is for him to strip that away—waking or sleeping. “She tastes so good, doesn’t she?” Cara asks. 

“She does,” he says, and his voice breaks a little. 

“Do you love her as much as I do?” 

“Yes, Cara.” 

Then, maybe, it can work. “Okay. Let’s do this.” 

Omera takes her place at the tree, and Cara takes her place on her knees, and she hasn’t even pushed Omera’s dress up yet when Djarin sighs beside her. “Of course she’s better at it,” he says. “She can see what she’s doing.” 

Cara glares at him. She whips one hand out and he twists like she’s going for his leg, but that works in Cara’s favor—she grabs the corner of his cape, already so ragged, and tears off a strip. She doesn’t break eye contact until she puts it on as a blindfold and knots it at the back of her head. Then she feels for Omera’s thighs. 

She hears him step in close again. “Is it because she brings you off fast?” he asks Omera. 

“Not usually,” Omera tells him as Cara kisses just above her knee. “She knows how to take her time.” 

“She isn’t… gentle.” It isn’t a question. 

“She isn’t rough, either. She—“ Omera takes a breath in as Cara licks her inner thigh, but she carries on casually enough. “She doesn't leave me numb down there. After I climax, I could go again.” 

Well. If Cara had known that, they would have spent much more time in the woods. 

“If I shaved…” 

Omera laughs, and she has a way of doing it so it’s not _at_ him, so the laugh is almost a compliment. “I like your facial hair. I like your enthusiasm too. You just need pr— _oh_.” 

That’s right. Cara, delighted to find that Omera wore nothing under her dress, opens her mouth to the cleft between Omera’s legs. The hem of Omera’s dress, formerly grazing Cara’s forehead, rises away. “Watch,” Omera says. 

Cara hears a creak as Djarin crouches down beside her. Whether the sound comes from the leather of his boots, or his busted knee, she can’t be sure. 

“She starts slow,” Omera says. “See how she’s using her lips?” 

“Yes,” Djarin says, voice rough. 

“She hasn’t even begun with her tongue yet.” Omera’s voice is getting more brittle as Cara works her mouth thoroughly between her folds. 

“I didn’t think she’d be that patient,” he mutters, and Cara won’t break her stride by responding, despite how much she’d like to tell him you can’t rush art. 

“I didn’t either. She was going out of her head waiting for you to wake up.” 

Djarin takes a careful breath. “It doesn’t look… like she’s focusing on anyplace pleasurable right now.” Also not a question, but his curiosity is obvious. 

“Anticipation is pleasurable too. And I’m drenched.” 

“Mm-hmm,” Cara says happily, sliding against Omera for good measure. Omera gasps through her teeth, then lets the air back out in a laugh. 

Djarin says, “Maybe she could guide me. By feel.” 

“I would be amenable, if you’d like to come inside tonight, Cara.” 

Cara presses her tongue against Omera’s cunt, and Omera’s hips arch away from the tree. 

“That seems like a yes,” Djarin says. Omera shivers and says nothing. 

Yes. She would like to come inside. She would like to come on Omera’s tongue and Din’s tongue, and maybe two or three other parts of them. 

“That was just under four minutes.”

“Timing things is un-sexy,” Omera warns, gently. “It’s about the rhythm, about knowing when I’m ready for the next part. When I’m hungry for it.” 

Cara angles her head back, the better to lap up the warm cold water cream of Omera. “Slow strokes,” Omera whispers. She gets hung up on the s-sounds. “N...not much force.” 

“If you direct me like that,” he says, but he doesn’t finish the thought because Cara curls her tongue just beneath Omera’s clit, and Omera gasps, loud. 

“Look,” she says, and Cara holds still so he can see how her tonguetip sits just _so_. 

She almost loses her place when his gloved hand settles on the back of her neck, over her hair. He doesn’t press, or grab. Maybe it’s just to help him keep his balance. 

“You’re close?” he asks Omera. 

“Yes. I’m— _ohhh_.” Cara fastens her lips around Omera’s clit, and opens them only to dip her tongue beneath, a little taste of Omera once every three or four times her hips hitch. 

Din’s fingers flex against Cara’s neck, but then he checks himself and keeps them loose, the way Cara’s hands have stayed loose on Omera’s thighs. “Tell me,” he says to Omera. 

“Cara,” Omera whines, brokenly, and she holds her breath, and her walls tremor around Cara’s tongue, and Cara lets her ride that out, and then when the strength goes out of Omera’s legs, Cara pulls away, grinning. 

“Omera,” says Din, “cover your eyes, please?” 

A pause, and then a breeze on her cheek is Cara’s only warning before a broad, warm tongue glides over one side of her jaw. He licks up the other side, and hesitates, his breath mingling with Cara’s, before drawing his tongue across her mouth. Cara moans. 

“You both taste good,” he says with his lips at her ear. A moment later he slips the blindfold off her, and Cara blinks up at a flushed and drowsy and achingly beautiful Omera. Din stands, groaning softly, and leans on the tree beside her. “I didn’t catch it all. I’ll have to see it a few more times.” 

Omera wheezes a laugh and lets her head loll to his pauldron. She looks down at Cara, and extends a hand. “Come home,” she says. 

And Cara does. 

**Author's Note:**

> Cheers for reading! By the by, I take prompts for this OT3 on my Tumblr, @hauntedfalcon.


End file.
